Darkness settles around me. The snow falls heavy and cold. I long for the white blanket Grandmother knitted
years ago. People pass: people in fast cars
coming home from work and heading into warm kitchens and soup bubbling upon the
stove; people walking dogs that pause and sniff at me and occasionally even
lift their legs. Occasionally someone
slows and glances at me.
Mostly, I am
I am thin. I
am faded. I am dull.
I remember how the children used to jump upon my
ample lap, eyes shining. There was
always enough room for all of them. They
would spend hours with me, constructing ornate forts out of cushions and quilts
or just curled up reading thick books, the cat always close at hand, stretching
out lazily in the sunshine slanting through lace curtains.
We watched movies together, while the father read
his newspaper, the dog parked beside me.
The dog and I shared a secret: when everyone was out of the house, he,
too, jumped upon my lap and curled up with me.
I remember listening to their games and their
stories and their silliness.
All these years, I absorbed their spills and their
tears and their stories.
And this is the thanks I get.
Pulls up to the curb. Stops.
A man and a woman get out of a pickup truck. “Look at that,” the woman says, shaking her
They go to either side of me. They take hold of me gently and lift me
up. They carry me to the truck.
“That’s a real shame,” the woman says. “Throwing away a perfectly good couch.”
This was written in response to a prompt from Write On Edge prompt: This
week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore
Labels: Creative non-fiction, Write on Edge